Of Duct Tape and Sea Turtles
by That Girl Six
Summary: When you've got nothing but time to wait, it's the little things that come to mind. All Scott has right now is time. To wait. To worry. To think they needed to get IR up and running real soon so that maybe Gordon wouldn't be on that exploding plane right now. Waiting sucks, no matter where you are.


**Disclaimer: **_Thunderbirds_ is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. Go worship at the altar of their brilliance. I hear a bottle of tequila and a dollar bill do wonders. This story is **rated T/M** solely for language (I've been married to the military far too long to not have a mouth). As with my other Tbirds story, trying to reconcile the differences between the series and film can be difficult, but I'm making an effort, so spoilers are for both. I hope it makes sense.

This story is directly related to my other Tbirds fic: _He Is, They Are_. It references the events of Scott's Air Force days. It isn't necessary to have read that story, although it will fill in some backstory if you read chapter six, Scott and Johnny.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read, whether I hear about it or not. You guys are awesome! Thanks. — Six

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><p><strong>Of Duct Tape and Sea Turtles<br>**_by That Girl Six_

The only reason Scott Tracy didn't roll over and put three bullets in the idiot who dared poke him in the ribs to wake him was, for once in this godawful hellhole of heat, he was in the middle of a good dream. A great dream. Well, a memory. It was a little booze-soaked, smoky, lacy, and oh so soft, but holy mother of all things good, that memory. He and Johnny so needed to go back to that (air conditioned) place the next time he was home. Virgil wasn't ready yet, but maybe in a year or so, he could come along, too. Some things deserved to be a tradition. Some things deserved to be between brothers.

And some idiots deserved to be shot. Maybe not this idiot — maybe — but the jury was still out on that one.

Who thinks it's smart to jab a guy in the ribs in the middle of a war zone? Fuckin' A, bubba!

The poor kid startled at Scott's reflexes, blinking cartoonishly at the extended arm like he knew he should be dead or at least sliced to ribbons by venomous fangs. Most people around this end-of-the-line firebase were jumpy (rightfully so) but, unluckily for this poor schmuck, Scott didn't have the reputation of being one of them. He should've been one of the safe ones to Lassie out of a nap. His reputation definitely needed to be amended: _Easy Enough, But Remember He Has Four Little Brothers. Watch the stupid, even if Timmy is stuck in the well._

"Are you awake?" The name tape said the kid's name was Xie. An eagle was patched on his shoulder. His high and tight was just a little too perfect, so he obviously hadn't resorted to doing the job himself yet. And wow, did he look young. Skittish, too. This kid was way too green. He took another step back when Scott didn't answer. "Sir?"

Scott propped himself on one elbow and pinched at sand-gooped eyes. He stuffed his extended hand back under the pillow, mindlessly feeling around for the plastic water pistol he knew would be stashed there if he were in his own bed in his own home. He missed his dream already. Damn, how he missed John.

At least when he was asleep, he didn't spend so much time being homesick. Mountains just weren't what they used to be, you know?

Involuntarily shaking as a chill passed over him, Scott shook himself back into the here and now. He still sounded sluggish, but he said, "Yeah. Sure, I'm here."

"Baia sent me. He wants you over in the S2."

"No way he asked that nicely."

"I believe his exact words were 'Tell that sonofabitch to get his lazy ass outta bed and over here now before I drag him here by his inadequate dick', sir."

"Sounds about right." Scott glanced at his watch. He'd only tripped into bed two-ish hours ago. This couldn't be good. He and Baia had been roommates long enough stateside for them to watch out for each other's sleep whenever they could and to have coffee instantly available whenever they couldn't. Lives (theirs) depended on it. "Did he say anything else?"

Xie shrugged. It was none of his business. So no coffee, then. Shit.

"Yeah." There were few other muttered _uh-huh_s and a "yep, waking up _any_ second now" as he reached blindly under his bunk for his boots and yanked them on without much thought. He could feel the specialist's eyes on him, waiting or awe-ing (Scott could never tell), but the fear seemed to have been blown out with the chill. These kids these days just didn't fear him like they should. First Alan and Gordon and now these new guys. Where did Scott go wrong?

The walk over to the square block building (a generous description) housing the S2 didn't do much to wake Scott up. He got a chill again as he glanced over to the apple orchard, wishing the apples would taste anything like they did at home. There was supposed to be a shipment flying in next week, but they'd already gone through most of the real food rations. MREs it was until then. Even these apples would be better than anything. As if there wasn't enough dysentery around here. He wouldn't feed a rabid dog an MRE.

He had to sidestep a small crater along the first baseline of their improvised baseball diamond. Oh, fun. In the two hours, he'd slept through another mortar attack. He picked up the pace a little, but he didn't bother to run. Nobody else they passed bothered to either.

Inside, the room stunk of overheated electronics, sand, fresh goat's milk tea, sweat, and a nasty shot of Axe spray. Scott wrinkled his nose. This was not the best thing to wake up to. Scott glanced woefully at the empty coffee pot before bothering to find Baia — not that what they threw together in there could be considered real coffee anyway. This sleep rotation truly sucked. Yep, Scott Tracy was a decorated soldier who wanted his grandma and her kitchen more than anything right now.

When he met Baia and Baker at the back of the great room, Scott planted his feet hip-width part and crossed his arms over his chest. He scanned the screens, dropped his eyes to the computer screen, and bumped his shoulder into Baia's (harder than he should, just to remind the guy he'd failed in his coffee duties). Baker got a softer smile, the kind his mother taught him all women deserved (until he knew better). He pinched at his eyes again and said through a yawn, "What am I looking at?"

"Give it a minute."

IWN came back from commercial onto the standard Breaking News crawl because there was no such thing as news that wasn't breaking these days. This one came with explosions, though, because the words "Explosion At Sea" were bolded and in all capitals in a red banner behind the breaking news flag. Big day for the twenty-four hour news outlets.

For the next five minutes, Scott watched IWN's talking heads lament how much they didn't know, other than that it might be a terrorist attack, an accident, a they don't have a clue what, but they're going to keep on bringing their viewers the news until they know what's going on.

"I've had two hours of sleep, buddyfucker," Scott said through another yawn. Baker backhanded his shoulder, but she didn't say anything. She loved her sleep even more than he did. She didn't look any happier to be summoned than Scott was.

"It's got wings and an engine. That makes it your area of expertise, not mine. Just wait."

Onscreen, the bushy-haired man in the studio thanked Ned Cook at the scene before saying, "When we come back, Ned Cook with unconfirmed reports on the identity of one of the pilots of the craft, along with a conversation with our panel of military, terrorism, and oceanographic experts about what could have caused this tragedy at sea. Stay with us."

The screen went dark. So did Scott.

Gordon. It was an irrational thought, he knew. Of all the people in the world, there was no reason whatsoever that his mind should connect what was probably a terrorist attack on a military operation in the middle of nowhere with his little brother, who should be sitting safely poolside at home. Studying since he was so damned determined to blow Scott's GPA out of the water. Reading up on his World War II history because it was just one of those things he loved to read about. Sleeping because his other favorite thing to do was sleep. Gordon.

Little, smaller than the rest of them for reasons they don't know yet (and because at least one of Scott's little brothers needed to stay little) Gordon.

Except Gordon had rushed off some email to him a few days ago about how he wouldn't be able to check in for a while because was working on a project through that school of his he couldn't wait to tell Scott about when they talked next.

Except Gordon was working on some sort of ROTC-WASP joint thing Dad wasn't entirely thrilled about, but Gordon thought it was something big for his future that would keep him close to the water after all the training was done. Can't be an Olympian forever, right?

Except the only way they were going to ID any of the victims this early into the unknown was if the victim had a name people would know.

Poseidon and all his little seaweed gnawing minions couldn't possibly be this cruel, right?

When IWN came back from commercial, the flames rose higher than Bushy Hair's hair in high definition. That's when he knew. Scott didn't need an IWN talking head to tell him what he already knew. That was his little brother in that inferno. Because there was no way the Tracy luck could go any other way.

Ned Cook, live on the scene and bringing you the best up to date information, couldn't have looked more smarmy saying Gordon's name if he tried.

Okay, yep, ouch, gotcha. Scott finally understood what it meant when people said they wanted to throw up but knew they couldn't. Because if he had any idea how to make himself throw up, he'd do anything to get rid of this burning — oh fuck, bad choice of words — acrid yellow ice thing in his gut. He bent over at the waist, arms clutched and clawing at his sides, trying to give his lungs any room to bring in air at all. Breathing needed air. Life needed air.

There couldn't possibly be any air in that twisted hunk of molten hell.

"Scott? Is that?" one of them asked, but Scott's ears might as well have been sitting buried under that pile of random shit over on the table because he couldn't hear anything and make it sound like anything but one of Charlie Brown's teachers in his brain.

Fuck, where were Gordon's ears?

Please, oh please, let them still be attached where they belonged. Please let every single cell of his body be where it belonged.

"Scott?"

"I give it five minutes before we get baked goods, whether they have confirmation or not." It was cloudy and low, but he somehow managed to work his jaw enough to say it. He didn't know if he could say anything else between now and when the press managed to get that picture up on the screen, but hey, he'd managed to say that much. Small victories, right? Yay rah.

"Huh?"

Scott waved his hand with hardly a glance at the friends whose shoulders were now so much closer to his own. They weren't meant to get it. There were only six people in this world who could know what "baked goods" meant, and these people weren't them. Still, their effort was admirable. It wouldn't give him strength of any kind — he never understood how platitudes were meant to give people strength when he had always been taught he had to find it in himself — but hey, middle of the fucking sandbox from Hell, right? Take it where you can get it, because it sure as hell was taking everything he had just to keep from locking his knees and taking a digger into the filing cabinet under the TV.

He felt a tepid water bottle being pressed into his hand. Oddly, Scott wondered where anyone found a bottle even this cool around here. He didn't see much of anything being cold these days, not in the summer. Dad had never wanted them to be too pampered — regardless of the press assuming they were spoiled, coddled little princes — but he'd certainly never let them go without the basics. Cold water (Dad and the boys) seemed so far away, though. Home. He had to get home. He had to — The bottle was pressed harder.

"Settle down. It won't do you any good to freak out before you know anything." That was Baker, Scott could tell this time. Yay for him. Of course, her hand squeezing his helped the identification. He thought he caught the scent of her lavender soap this time, too.

Mom had loved lavender anything. She'd had some in a corner of every room of her house but her boys' rooms. He wondered if Mom would've liked Baker. Not that he'd brought a girl home, not really, and that would just be awkward with Baker. Still, lavender was a good thing.

You're supposed to plant lavender by your front gate for good luck. Where that bit of information came from, he had no idea. John, probably. Or some movie or book. John would know. His human-computer hybrid brain would know. Johnny knew everything like that. Or Alan. He seemed to spend a lot of time gardening the mud pies with Grandma. He'd know.

Trying to be as discreet as possible, Scott took in a deep breath. Mom liked lavender because it was soothing. Calming. He kept his eyes closed, needing that scent more than the friend at the moment. Nodding at the screen, Scott asked her, "What are they saying?"

"Joint statement from WASP and the Pentagon in thirty minutes."

"They won't tell us anything beyond your standard thoughts and prayers with the victims and their families right now." Scott had enough experience with the press and brasses of Fortune 500 companies to know how these things worked. In the early stages of any big headline, even the military performed in the same way. Part of it was to protect the families, of course — they deserved to know what was happening before the rest of the nosy world came knocking for a statement — but they weren't going to say anything they could be sued for later when they didn't have enough information to cover their own asses. No institution, business or whatever, had the luxury of doing otherwise, even ones like Tracy Industries that strived to always be the good guys.

Baker nudged the bottom of the water bottle with her chipped index nail. "Drink something."

Baia knocked his knee sideways into Scott's leg. "Breathing would be good, too."

"I have to call home. I have — "

"Wait for the statement."

"My brother is on that goddamn plane. It's burning, and it's mangled, and he's in there and — "

"Screw that guy on TV. They don't know anything. You don't know that's Gordon for sure. Think about it. He's a kid. Why would he be there?"

Scott glared at Baia, who should've known better by now than to argue with him. "You're an only child," he said, meeting his friend dead in the eye, daring him to flinch. "You have no fucking clue. My little brother is on that plane, and I need to call home."

"You know they can't do anything until the Red Cross gets you the message."

"I'm not asking to hot-wire a C-130 here. But I need to hear from somebody that something is being done to help him, and I need it to come from someone without a press secretary."

Up on the television screen, Bushy Hair stood with a white-bordered photograph behind him on some elaborate set and green screen combination. Cutting him off at the knees was a banner screaming, "Military Confirms First Explosion Victim". Scott would know the picture anywhere. If it weren't for the family shorthand of the memories behind it, he'd still wish they could find out which traitor in Virgil's class had sold him (all of them) out to _People Magazine_. How much would that photo be worth now?

The pictures of the Tracy clan coming off the mountain with their mother and grandfather's blanket-covered bodies had sold in the six digits, or so the lawyers had said.

Scott threw the water bottle at the screen before he could even think. It wasn't directed at any of them in particular, but he unleashed the righteous anger at any and all. "See? Baked goods."

In another little insert screen, Ned Cook stood on the shore while rambling off Tracy family history like he didn't need a teleprompter to know it all. The picture, taken just last spring and not long before Gordon Tracy's triumphs in the Olympic pools, put all six Tracy men on display, but a projection bubble separated Gordon's face from the others. God, he'd looked so happy that day. Proud. Little Brother proud. That was his brother up there just before, third valedictorian in the Tracy line. There was a smirk in there, too, one that said they'd all better hold on to their GPAs tight because he was going to blow them all out of the water when it was his turn.

And that's when it struck him, a fast ball to the guts. Gordon technically wasn't even out of high school yet. What the hell was he doing on that piece of flaming metal anyway? And who had put him there? Forget ROTC. What could possibly have possessed anyone to put his kid brother on one of those things?

"I need a phone." It probably came out sounding garbled, but his jaws were clenched too tight for him to worry about proper enunciation at the moment.

"And we'll get you to one in just — "

"I need a goddamned phone right now."

"Scott, you gotta hear me. You're getting out of here as soon as this stop loss shit is done. You and your dad, I know you've got something cooking you aren't telling me about. Don't go freaking out and screwing that over what you don't know for sure is even — "

He didn't see the fist that connected with his jaw. Neither did Scott, really.

Neither of them moved. Holy shit.

Okay, yes, Scott admittedly had some anger issues after the thing with the plane and, you know, axe at his throat while some sleeper stood far too close to Gordon. What brother wouldn't be more than a tad protective of his family after that? Scott's every sense of safety — even while flying a plane meant to protect the life and liberty of his country and carrying a gun to protect his own — had been violated in ways he knew even he didn't yet understand. It was raw and disgusting and singed nerves exposed to salted sea air in his every breath. Some days, he didn't know how he controlled it as long as he did. Get in and out of the situations that got him thinking it didn't matter that he had time left to serve; once Dad's dream was up and running, he'd have a safe place to hide. It was a cowardly thing, something burrowing in his head only every now and then when he was most vulnerable to the ice in his gut, but never — not even for a second — had that anger been turned on anyone else. It was his to scrape, his to gnaw, his alone to live with.

Never had he lost control so quickly or stupidly.

Okay, he should probably breathe now. Anger needs oxygen to feed on. So does calm. Stupid Zen even balance yada yada yogi nonsense.

Breathe.

Breathing was a lot easier to do from the floor. He should probably sit down. Baker's hand on his elbow wasn't about to give him a choice. Neither was her voice soothing something in his ear.

"Baia, get some air," she said in the same spooked horse calm voice. "Tracy and I are just going to have a playground refresher about keeping our hands to ourselves." Baker shoved him good and hard into a chair and swiveled it so he was facing away from the bank of computerized television death. Over her shoulder she barked, "Go."

"There's no way he's alive." Scott didn't wait for the kindergarten reminder, and he didn't care that he sounded absolutely pathetic either. Maybe just this once he'd be forgiven for that. Baker was really into the whole badass biker thing back home. This wasn't going to impress her at all. "But I can't feel — there isn't a hole. He's got to be alive. I don't feel it. I don't — he can't be gone."

"And I'll help you find out for sure in a couple minutes, but right now, I get the feeling it won't matter who you talk to because you'll only hear one answer. Until you calm down, you aren't getting anywhere near a telephone. You're no good to — which one is he?"

"Gordon. Four."

"Okay. You're not helping Gordon by sucker punching one of your only friends around here."

Scott tried to smirk, although it probably came out more grimace than smart ass or amused. They'd had this discussion plenty of times, though none of them ever seemed to win. "I have friends."

"You have reporters following your ass everywhere."

"Friendly reporters."

"Who want nothing but to use you for copy." Baker's eyebrows shot up into her hair as she snorted. How many times had they had this conversation now? "Try again, sweets."

"I can't help who my father is. He was and is good at his job. Why does that mean I have to not have friends?"

"Reporters."

"I believe they only feel they're taken seriously if you call them 'journalists' now. Keep up with the times." He didn't say it often, but he did let his frustration seep in whenever this conversation came up. And why shouldn't it? It was true. "We're all just trying to do our jobs."

_Scott _was just trying to do his job. What was he supposed to do, live in seclusion his entire life because Dad got lucky? Should he have to find out all of this with Gordon because Dad was good at what he did and the whole world seemed to think that made it their business? He wasn't even going to go to that other place and think about how differently all of that could've gone down if he hadn't had name, rank, and serial to tell his captors who exactly they had in their hands only because he, too, was good at his job?

"So you keep saying. How much do you want to bet one of them is doing their job right now?" Baker got it, too. She nodded her chin toward the door. And yep, sure as shit, one of the pack was waiting at the window. Damn vultures.

Scott sighed. "They're trying to do their jobs."

"And right now, their job says they've got Scott Tracy, the brother of one of the victims and national hero, stuck in a building with only one way out. So how do you think it's going to look to them when they see you follow anyone out of here after they look like they tripped and fell on your fist?"

Fishbowl reporters — no, he wasn't feeling charitable right now, so they were reporters — had lousy jobs. They had a right to do them, he supposed, but that didn't mean he wouldn't remind them over a friendly card game tomorrow exactly how much they needed to find a new line of work.

"Okay, you made your point. Can I have the phone now?"

"Sit tight here. I'll see what I can do. Just keep your hands in your pockets, okay? I don't want to come back to a black eye."

Scott nodded, feeling slightly yucky at the idea that it was a dismissal. He'd never been good at not analyzing his every move, wondering if people saw things like that the way other people see them, or if they were simply seeing the rich boy sending them off on their merry way. It was a lousy way to live, and most of the time he could find his way past it to have normal friendships. But right now, waiting here like this without knowing who would be the next person to baked goods him in this mess? There had to have been a dozen pictures taken of him, all pathetic and worrying, from that window by now.

Some weird lost time later, a shadow fell over him, less ominous, more vaguely friendly. Scott didn't bother to look up. He knew who it was. "I hear somebody threw a punch at you. What an ass. You want me to kick his ass?"

Baia shrugged. "I know better than to question your — _his_ — Spidey-sense when it comes to those Tracy kids. You've never been wrong about it before."

"Still shouldn't've happened."

Baia's hand landed gently on Scott's shoulder and squeezed. Scott stood, ready to meet his punishment. He gripped his friend's wrist hard, hoping all the apology in it was obvious because there were no words otherwise. They stared at each other for a moment until Baia crooked his lips into a lopsided smile. Tapping a phone into Scott's hand, Baia ended their little moment. "I hope John has good news. Find me when you're done?"

"FAB."

"One of these days, you _are_ going to tell me what that means, right?"

"Sorry. Brother thing."

"When was the last time I told you all you Tracys are weird?"

"Every day."

"Damn straight." Baia squeezed his shoulder one more time, hooked his free thumb over his other shoulder, and backed out without another word to give Scott his privacy. Yep, he was still a kick-ass roommate — and he probably knew it, too, if that grin was any indication. Scott could practically hear him whistle. "You know you love me."

And the horse he rode in on, too, the jerk.

Everyone else moved away quietly, some with hesitant glances in his direction, some shoved along with _Nothing to see here_ urgency from Baker. Scott waved at her, so full and grateful for her friendship. Baia and Baker got it. While most of the guys he spent his time with were used to being in Scott's presence like he was one of them, mere mortals all, there were still people who couldn't get past the idea he was _The_ Scott Tracy. Whether that was because of his family or because of the dramatic (and it was oh so dramatic) rescue he'd been through after being shot down, he wasn't sure. He saw Baker give that specialist a shove toward the door, letting him know his curiosity was no longer welcome, and if he said so much as a word about this to anyone, she'd hunt him down faster than a half price pair of Jimmy Choos.

Finally alone, Scott's fingers twitched as he tried to thumb the buttons matching the numbers on the piece of paper. For the first time in this, he wasn't so sure he wanted to call. There were answers on the end of the line. Maybe those answers weren't something he wanted to hear. At least here, in this hole, he could pretend Gordon was perfectly fine, not a scratch on that skinny little body of muscle. He didn't have to know anything different, not yet. But then it was ringing and the answers were too close.

A beat of silence put a small glow of hope in Scott's heart. There was a connection. A line. Something to tether him to home and Gordon and the others. A live damn line.

"Tracy."

"Johnny?" Under his hitched breath, Scott's shaking voice repeated, _Johnny?_ Words couldn't describe how much he hated talking through sat phone. Dad had this buddy he called Brains who he'd put to work doing some massive hush-hush project for Tracy Industries. Scott had seen his laboratory once. The guy's failures had better tech than the military most days, and yet, here Scott was, biggest emergency of his life, and he couldn't talk without having to wait for everything he said to be repeated through a cloud of static. Fucking sat phones.

John swore some mumbled combination of sexually impossible clusters involving a sword, a rat, and only the ether of space could know what. "You've heard."

_You've heard._

"Ned Cook licks dog-pissed rocks," Scott said, answer enough.

The line got even more muffled as John must've covered the mouthpiece. It didn't keep Scott from hearing him yell at someone about the rat bastard press and whoever leaked the information finding a very deep, dark hole to hide in. Scott's guts churned. He loved John for it, but protecting the boys was supposed to be his job. John shouldn't be doing this for him, not like this, not using his voice and his words and trying so damn hard to be Scott.

Oh, god, he had to get home.

Trying to wrest some control back, Scott went with his most calm, _big brother's got this_ voice. "Hey, kiddo, you there?"

On his end, John came back then sighed, probably just as relieved to hear Scott's voice (twice) as Scott was to hear his. "Yeah, Scott, I'm here. I don't have much. You ready?"

Scott waited for the echo to pass before he said, "Not really, but give it to me anyway."

"He's alive. It's critical, they're airlifting him to New York now, but he's still alive."

Yeah, those knees weren't holding out so well anymore. Scott's ass hit the floor, his back the lip of the chair, and his head the side of the file cabinet. Clang. He supposed he should be relieved, but he'd seen the _critical but still alive_ side of things before enough times to know. Glasses don't get to half-full when there's a leak in the bottom, you know?

"How critical is critical?"

Critical. Echo. _Critical._

"They had to wait on the helipad for ten minutes while they restarted his heart twice because they were afraid to fly him until he was somewhat stable." After it all repeated back under him going on, Scott was sure he heard something else shaking in John's voice, something angry and scared. It came after a static-filled gap. "None of us were there to see it, so I can't tell you anything else for sure about the how. I'm getting this as second-hand as you are."

"IWN said there are others?"

He could practically hear John shake his head in the wait for the echo. "They've only found Gordon."

The words echoed like all the others. They've only found Gordon.

Only Gordon. In now two hours, they'd only found Gordon.

"The heat?" Scott swallowed hard. The only reason they had even that confirmation was probably because Dad made it happen. Did the other families even know their children were involved? Were they supposed to be there? Did their kids have a fear of fire like Gordon did?

God, he must be so scared. Scott sure as hell was.

"I don't know. I wish I knew what to tell you. Dad's calling in whatever favors he can squeeze out of people to get answers. All he's been able to get so far is that it wasn't a terrorist attack, but they aren't ruling out sabotage. Gordon was asked to pilot one of three hydrofoils they were testing. It looks like they weren't military but looking to fulfill military contracts of some sort. They don't know yet what went wrong — not that they'll ever tell us when they do."

"Those things aren't supposed to go more than forty knots. How the hell did this happen?"

"Testing," John said again, the _The military's gotta protect its own ass_ so very audible. "Not that we know what they were testing. Just testing."

"Source?"

"Wild Blue Yonder."

Scott smiled. Thank you, Chuck. You're a good man, Chuck. My dad owes you a really nice present, Chuck.

Dad had some good sources in the military; Tracy Industries had a few contracts with both international organizations and those in the US and UK military. Dad no doubt had no qualms with calling in any and all favors he had left after last year's debacle with Scott being shot down. Of course, Dad had spent his adult life doing everything he could to cultivate those relationships into friendships. And in Jeff Tracy's mind, that loyalty didn't have a limit, especially where his children were involved.

Dad would never stop owing Chuck. If any of what happened in the next few hours kept Gordon alive, neither would Scott.

"What was he even doing there, John? He's a kid."

What's next? Stick Alan in a race car before he even has his license?

"Gordon stopped being a kid the minute he made the Olympic team. This wasn't his only offer. Trust me. Dad had to take a team from legal to dedicate to all the offers. After last year, the school's been putting him into a lot of research with WASP. They want to send him to that Deep Sea Victoria colony he's been going on and on about next month. Brat's been referred to as an expert already."

Scott's hand shook as he reached to yank brutally at hair he forgot wasn't there. "Why didn't I know this?"

"We were a little busy getting you back in shape enough to get you back to work."

Scott scrubbed his hand over his shorn head, letting the stubble burn his palm. Yeah, he'd heard that argument enough times. After being shot down, the whole family would've preferred Scott chapter out of his last nine months. There wouldn't have been any shame in it, not in their eyes. But Scott, he couldn't simply give up. When he left the military, it would be on his own terms and no one else's.

And yet, AWOL had a certain ring to it.

How much longer was he supposed to wait to get home now, after Gordon and the others had dropped everything for him? _How_ was he supposed to wait? Yes, he understood, they couldn't exactly pick up the phone to call him. They were waiting exactly as he was, helpless as he was, scared as he was. There were three other brothers who were just as afraid the Tracy Five was about to become some fucked up version of an off-key barbershop quartet, but he couldn't get to them to be a part of even that. John was there, shouldering this with Dad. Virgil was he had no idea where, and Alan was still too young, really, to get it.

How could he do this? How was he supposed to do his job back there when he couldn't even take care of himself here?

If ever there was a time Scott had laid down on the job, this had to be a doosey of a time. How could he twiddle his thumbs and not ...

Okay, so what could he do that was even remotely productive to help out there when — No, there was no doing. Waiting wasn't doing, but he couldn't just ...

Something. There had to be something, right?

Had he said everything he should've said? Had he told Gordon how proud he was of his little brother? Had he been the brother he should've been? Had he told him how happy he was just to have his little brother come home every day?

God, when was the last time he'd even talked to Gordon? Or Alan? Anybody in the family but John?

They were family, but even in a family as sequestered from the world as they were, simply being family couldn't make them close. That had to happen because they wanted it, worked for it, did something besides justify their relationship with nothing more than "we're family".

Things with John were different. They talked in ways he couldn't talk to the others. They had secrets he couldn't tell the others. And it wasn't about trust or love or anything but his own understanding of who his brothers were. He knew what he could tell each of them, what they could and couldn't handle, who they could be for him just as easily as he knew what he had to be for each of them. With John, there was a different sensibility. They were eldest. They had been only two for so long that they had their own sort of language.

Had Scott tried to find that kind of language with the boys at all? Had he tried enough? Had he listened enough?

Did Gordon know? Did any of them know?

He didn't. It was a stupid question. Of course they didn't. He had failed in that one duty more times than he could count, could only judge himself a failure because he could never tell them enough how much he loved them. Instead he sat here, surrounded by the best technology the military world had to offer, faster planes than other country in the world could offer, and he couldn't move. It wasn't home. He needed to be home, where the boys were, where his family was, where everyone — Home.

"I've gotta get home. I can't just sit here waiting like a — Gordon is — and I — I have to get home. You can't — I gotta get _home_."

"Scott, you have to breathe. I'm not there. I _can't_ be there. Please, don't lose it on me right now."

There. That pleading. John had held his hands through panic after panic until the day they'd put him on a plane back here. He knew the signs. That was what he could do. John needed him to not lose it. That's what he could do. This one time, Scott could manage to not need anyone to hold his hand.

Scott wiped at his eyes, smearing the water away like so much sleepy green goop. "I'm breathing, kiddo. Promise. Sorry about that."

"I know. Listen, the helicopter is landing. I don't want Dad to be alone. I've got all the contact numbers, so I'll have someone get you a message as soon as I can. Try to not panic, okay?"

"Don't let him out of your sight."

It wasn't exactly a full wattage smile, but Scott could hear John trying for one when he said, "The brat owes me twenty bucks from dinner last weekend. He isn't going anywhere. Neither are you."

"No way."

"And Scott? Turn off the news. It won't do you any good to watch that shit."

"I'll see what I can do." He had to let John go. He knew he did. Go, go, don't go, oh man. He couldn't let this one lifeline to home go. Breathe. Go. Stay. Don't go. Shit. "Johnny, go get Dad." _Before I can't let you_.

"Find something for your hands."

"Go, kiddo. I'm good."

"Later."

Later. Echo. _Later._

Scott closed his eyes, nearly dropping the sat phone as if it might be coated in scorpion puke. Even with the violent shaking, his hand didn't lose the shape of the phone. Shit. He should've known better than to make promises. With his other hand, he pounded it around on the desktop until he wrapped his fingers around something big enough to hold without his hand tightening into a fist. It wasn't his favorite part of hyperventilating, to say the least, but it was something he could deal with if he was careful.

Duct tape. It was nothing but a three dollar roll of duct tape. It was smaller than the width of the phone, which meant his hand would tighten even more, but it was wide enough his nails wouldn't carve out their bloody crescents into his palms like usual. He could do this.

He'd been doing this so much more often than he'd let on, even to John, but he could do this.

Duct tape was awesome. Gordon liked duct tape and had caused a lot of damage over the years with it. That time he tried to hide that he'd broken one of the basement windows at Grandma's by stuffing wet toilet paper and black duct tape over the hole was priceless.

But John wasn't here, and Scott's hands were hurting, and his lungs were burning, and there was no fucking way he could keep going like this if he didn't —

Duct tape. Duct tape can fix anything. Gordon could do all kinds of things with duct tape. Gordon could do all kinds of things with lots of things. But there was that time with the duct tape and the injured sea turtle where they'd all thought he was nuts, but Gordon with the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration could do anything.

You know what else is awesome? Sea turtles were freaking awesome.

What the huh? Okay, so it was random and Gordon and the sea and water. Just go with it. Focus on something not flaming balls of —

Sea turtles. Right.

Sea turtles left their babies to figure out the world. They weren't burdened by an overprotective desire to put their kids in plastic bubbles armed with their own missile defense systems. They didn't keep their kids sequestered from the dangers of the ocean without denying them the chance to live their lives. Even little Gordons deserved the chance to surf the EAC, right, Nemo?

Of course, if the grown ups wanted to provide a little duct tape with the plastic bubbles, that'd be great. Super, even. Because duct tape can fix anything. Competitive soccer fix-it moms used it to decorate their kids' walls and umbrellas and creepy doll heads. If the bike needed some MacGuyver-ing, Mom had duct tape in eight fabulous colors. Go, duct tape!

But Humpty Dumpty lived in a world without duct tape, and it couldn't have put him back together anyway. Mother Goose left that line out as a redundancy, her cracked point sufficiently communicated. Not that there was anything that rhymed with duct tape.

Nothing rhymed with Gordon, either, not anything that could MacGuyver his insides back on the inside where they belonged. Duct tape was, in a word, useless.

Scott threw the triple roll across the room.

Gordon was getting a damn plastic bubble with his own Star Wars weapons system, complete with Imperial March blaring from the sound system as he rolled along. He could argue all he wanted, but this time Scott would not be overruled. All he had to do was get out of this godforsaken desert first. There had to be a one-way duct tape bubble around here somewhere.

"Tracy?"

Scott startled. Way too many people were sneaking up on him today. "Yeah?"

"You've got another message with a phone number you're supposed to call."

"Does it say who?"

"Just a number. Seriously, your dad knows some pretty scary people. Remind me to always stay glued to your side when we're out there."

Yes. Dad knew some scary people. But scary people can get information no one else can, and for that, Scott was grateful.

It took another ten minutes — mind-shattering, agonizing without enough information minutes — before he could secure the phone and get through. It rang only once before the silence greeted him. He'd known him long enough to know Court wouldn't say anything until he did. The man specialized in precision paranoia.

"It's Scott."

"Damn, kid, it's good to hear your voice."

Relief (and maybe a little embarrassment) colored Scott's cheeks. He picked up a pencil and started to flip it up and down, tapping the eraser and lead ends on the ink blotter before flipping again. Court was there. The, yes, very scary man who'd bullied his way around this joint enough to get Scott rescued ten months ago when he might otherwise have languished in the hands of some offshoot al-Qaeda camp until the axe really did kiss his throat was there. Court would protect Dad and the boys while Scott couldn't. He hated to relinquish the control, but this one time, he couldn't be more grateful to shoulder the load.

"You too, man," Scott said, careful not to use the man's name, even on this secured line. "Tell me something good."

"Your dad got to see him before they took him in for surgery. I've arranged for my people to be at the hospital to keep the vermin out, and I won't leave until I drag your dad out for some sleep. I've got four people on John down the street at the hotel. There won't be a statement from the family other than asking for privacy. I can't do much about the press embedded with you, but feel free to use my name to scare the ever-lovin' shit out of them if you have to. Most of them should be the same from last year. They'll leave you alone."

Okay, so Scott had to smile at that. He'd noticed the reporters had been much better about giving him a rather wide berth since his recovery. He couldn't help but wonder what Court had done to scare them so shitless. He'd have to get the man drunk one of these days to hear the story.

"Thank you. I know I can't — John's gonna need the help. He and Dad have this thing since Mom and Grandpa, but after last year, I don't know if — "

"I've got this, kid. All you have to do is concentrate on what you're doing over there."

Scott didn't bother to tell Court his request was most definitely denied. This was his little brother. There was no easing up on that. It didn't matter if he was cooling his heels in a waiting room or strangling the duct tape here; waiting would be hell wherever. No, he wouldn't know what they were going through there, not with the press and the sounds of alarms going off down at the nurses' station or the scuff of the surgeon's feet on the linoleum that may or may not be coming for them with life-changing news. His wait would be his alone. Truly alone.

"That's a direct order, kiddo."

"Dad or John?"

"Gordon. He was awake when your dad saw him."

"He — what?"

"I won't lie, but you've been there. I doubt the little bit they could give him for the pain was doing a whole lot for what he was going through, but he was awake. He said, 'Tell Scotty I said to stay put'."

Okay, so it wasn't at all dignified, but Scott snorted wet and nasty around a snot bubble of a laugh. He damn near choked on it. The sound almost startled him, like he never thought he'd hear the sound again and must have buried it away. But there it was. He'd laughed. His soul hadn't been snatched and replaced with a robotic something from a classic horror sci-fi thing or one of the hideous remakes.

Gordon knew. Whatever else hadn't been said between them, Gordon knew.

Goddamn awesome brat. He deserved something shiny and expensive to cuddle with when Scott got home.

"Scott?"

He wiped his sleeve with a dignified schlerp and pop, cleared his throat, and tried to sound worthy of the trust Gordon had in him. "Uh-huh."

"I know the waiting sucks, but we're going to do whatever it takes to make sure you know everything as soon as we know, all right? Your dad and John are here to make any decisions. Virgil has Alan, and they are on the way to pick up your grandmother. Arrangements have been made to retrieve you, but as you heard, that's only if it becomes necessary. And Scott? Right now, that isn't necessary. Gordon himself said so. You know what that means, right?"

He would've loved to say he understood. He would've gladly said the words out loud, that Gordon was with them enough to talk, and there was no way his kid brother would leave them now. Not now, not when he'd relayed an order to Scott to wait. He wasn't done fighting yet, the message said. Not even close to yet.

And yet, Scott couldn't get the words out. Tears or words, one thing at a time, and right now he was too busy trying to not gunk up the phone too much. Why the hell couldn't this have happened when he was somewhere with more than just basic internet access? Sat phones sucked.

"You get me?"

"He's talking and no news is good news. Got it."

"It's going to be a long day of surgery for him, and that's before he'll have months of more surgeries and work to do. It's going to be brutal. I won't lie to you like that, but I _will_ get updates to you as soon as I can. Everything is covered. You just worry about keeping yourself safe on that end. Capisce?"

"Gotcha."

"Is there anything else I can do for you while you wait?"

"Tell him ... " Okay, here was that chance to say it, because this could still all go so damaged, rotten, _French revolutionists wouldn't use this to throw at the stocks_ kind of pear shaped that it could be his only chance. Say it. Out loud so there was no mistaking how he felt. He loves that damn kid and would chew off his left arm to get home to him if he had to (because nothing says _I love you _like DIY amputation). Three little, painless words.

"Tell that little shit I've got three new gray hairs, and I am naming them all after him — first, middle, and last."

Nope, it didn't get much more mushy than that. Not much at all.

And later, after the call was over and the lifeline Court had given him was gone, if the docs threatened to sedate him again from the laughing sobs of relief keeping Scott from moving from the corner of the shop, well... Gordon didn't need to know that part.

_(September 2014)_


End file.
